


considerably less interested in casual thievery

by intentandinvention



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Cuddling, Dirty Talk, Fingering, Fugue Feast, M/M, Martin has a filthy mouth and no one is surprised by this, Mild BDSM, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Pre-Canon, Shameless Smut, Subspace, Threesome - M/M/M, Touch-Starved, except maybe Corvo but he’s really not complaining, in which Daud and Martin are cocky bastards, inspired by tumblr headcanons regarding piercings and attitudes, like 20 years pre-canon, wow these tags are a rollercoaster ride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-17 15:06:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13079481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intentandinvention/pseuds/intentandinvention
Summary: ‘You’re planning something,’ Daud says, giving Martin a sideways glance as they walk.‘Shocking, I know. You should try it sometime.’Daud’s grin belongs on something that lurks in the shadows off forest paths. He’s the spit and fucking image of the men Martin’s ma warned him about in bedtime stories. ‘I’ve got you for that,’ he says.Fugue Feast, 1820: Daud and Martin, partners in casual criminality, encounter Corvo in the crowd during a particularly dull Fugue and decide to make things a little more interesting.





	considerably less interested in casual thievery

**Author's Note:**

> More or less canon timeline, with the assumption that Daud travelled extensively after arriving in Dunwall in 1816, and somewhere along the line he met a certain Morleyan highwayman and they went into partnership.
> 
> This is, uh, not necessarily my usual style, but various bits of it got into my head and wouldn't leave. I blame dreabean for encouraging me after I posted the initial piece on tumblr. Also, I'm unsure whether I should be proud of being the only fic currently in this relationship tag, so I'm settling for surprised and somewhat disappointed at the fandom.

The dice clatter and bounce across the cobbles, glinting in the torchlight. Martin rolls his eyes when they both come up sixes, because _of course_ they fucking do, and as the other players yell their indignation he cuts his gaze across to his always-overconfident partner. Daud’s grin is wide and wolflike as he collects his winnings, the row of ragged metal down one ear gleaming like his eyes. Martin keeps an eye on the folk circling the cobblestone game, but none of them are stupid enough to draw a weapon on a man who moves the way Daud does. There are things that the people down here know from long experience.

Still, there’s a limit, especially on the first night of Fugue when folks ordinarily constrained by the law forget that there are other forms of consequence. Martin takes a swig from the big earthenware jug beside him and jerks his head towards the next circle of gamblers, and Daud might be reckless with coin and a little tipsy but he’s no fool; he unfolds from his long-limbed crouch, and bids their companions a fair Feast.

They’ve been in Dunwall two years now, partners in a wide variety of criminal undertakings for four, and this is the first year they’ve not worked during Fugue. After their last job netted a payoff big enough to tide them both through the next month, they’re pretending to be law-abiding citizens for tonight, the one night when strangers might actually believe it. Honestly, it scratches at Martin’s sensibilities a little, just being a part of the shifting mass of humanity let loose onto Dunwall’s prim and proper streets, rather than circling it looking for openings. He spotted at least three members of parliament up by the Estate District earlier, thinking that their masks kept them safe; he’s restricted himself to marking their names in his head, and later he’ll decide whether their enemies will pay him enough for their vices to be worth sharing. Of course, he might do it anyway. Rich Gristolmen make his Morleyan fingers itch for his knives.

It’s easier out here though, further from the rich riverside districts. Here, folk are a little less tinged with pent-up mania, more open to sharing everything with their neighbours – from drinks and games to other, more traditionally private entertainments.

The two of them wander amongst the crowds, Martin keeping to the shadows by habit while Daud strolls in the centre of the street, tossing the bag of coin thoughtfully from hand to hand with that smile of his that promises sudden violence to anyone stupid enough to think they can take it. Say what you like about the man (and Martin frequently does, lest that overlarge ego get the best of him) but he has a stunning talent for the theatre of their work.

Of course, lately that’s caught attention in places Martin would rather steer well clear of.

Fortunately, the leather wrapping around Daud’s left hand has so far been dismissed as an affectation by their clients and suppliers, like the utterly unsubtle line of metal down the man’s ear and the trademark long knife that’s his weapon of choice. _Unsubtle_ is a good shorthand for Daud, Martin muses as he slips around the cheering fringes of a fistfight. Half lost in thought, he runs the barbell in his tongue along his teeth, enjoying the quiet click of it. They complement each other well, of course. Everyone’s so busy watching the flashy, arrogant asshole that they forget his partner’s even there until it’s too late. Valuables, reputation, life’s blood – the two of them aren’t fussy. They’ll take whatever pays best.

Across the street, Daud’s attention is suddenly sharp. Martin follows the tilt of his partner’s head, feels his own interest stirred as he sees wild black curls, a tall, lithe figure only just concealed beneath a beautifully tailored coat.

‘Fuck off, I saw him first,’ Daud growls, striding up beside him.

Martin nods distractedly and adds the figure’s apparent gender to his mental list, taking note of the way that the lad’s wandering – a little aimless, dark eyes wide when he turns in a full circle to stare at the street. New to the Fugue Feast, then, or at least to the way that Dunwall transforms in its chaotic embrace. In the streetlights the angle of his cheek is a curved shadow, his jaw clean-shaven and loose curls tumbling over the line of his neck. The glint in his left ear is small and bright enough to be gold, and the pouch at his belt looks heavy. No, they’re not working tonight, but casual thievery is hardly work, and the first darkness of Fugue is, after all, such a good night for it.

Martin sighs, wondering if he can be bothered to leash Daud back. Fugue is young yet, but even so there’ll be plenty of other targets less alert. As he considers it, a lovely dark-haired woman tumbles out of the crowd into the lad’s arms. The lad catches her instinctively, his eyes wide and embarrassed as he sets her back on her feet, backs away a little. She brushes her fingertips along his jaw and closes the distance like a skilled duellist, says a few words with a sly smile. She receives only a hurried headshake for her efforts, the lad tripping over his tongue as a dark blush rises into his face.

It’s unexpectedly transfixing; Martin feels his definition of “target” sliding into a new category.

Beside him, Daud grins, and murmurs, ‘Well?’, and in the undertones of it there’s amusement that it’s taken Martin quite so long to catch up. In his defense, it’s rare to see Daud actually interested in such things. Ninety-nine times in a hundred, Martin’s initial assumption would have been correct.

As if Daud’s shouted, the lad looks up. Martin recognises the look he’s given, the swift head-to-toe assessment – and doesn’t miss that the dark eyes flick over Daud as well before the lad turns away and slips into the crowd. Ah.

When Martin looks at Daud, his partner is watching him, gaze calculating. There’s still a discussion to be had, perhaps, but it’s not one they’ve not had before and anyway there’ll be no point in it if they lose their mark, and the lad’s almost out of sight as he ducks behind an impromptu street dance. Martin starts following, already mapping the streets ahead of them in his mind.

‘You’re planning something,’ Daud says, giving Martin a sideways glance as they walk.

‘Shocking, I know. You should try it sometime.’

Daud’s grin belongs on something that lurks in the shadows off forest paths. He’s the spit and fucking image of the men Martin’s ma warned him about in bedtime stories. ‘I’ve got you for that,’ he says.

Their target glances back as he turns off the main street. Martin lets his gaze drift over dark curls to focus on a woman a few yards away. No point in overly alarming their quarry – and she’s pretty, anyway, with Morley-red hair and curves he’d happily trace with his hands instead of his eyes if he weren’t otherwise engaged. ‘True. I take it all back, Void knows how you’d fuck up if you tried to do your own thinking.’

‘So he does,’ Daud answers gleefully as they turn into the side street, raising his left hand in front of them to admire its brown leather band. Martin shakes his head in mild despair. Daud won’t tell him exactly how he ended up on the black-eyed boy’s guestlist, so Martin only knows that he left Daud in Redmoor for perhaps a month whilst he went to Fraeport to do an old acquaintance a favour, and when he came back his partner had gone and got himself a shiny new tattoo and a bargain with the fucking Void.

Up ahead, their mark twists into an alleyway: an invitation, or maybe a warning. Martin considers the possibility that the lad’s bait — hell, it’s a trick the two of them have played before, since Daud can appear fucking angelic in the right clothes and with the junkyard extracted from his ear (right up until the point he opens his mouth, anyway) — but twenty months in Dunwall have taught him that the two of them are the most dangerous thing on these streets.

Besides, Martin’s blood’s up now. A good fight’ll be a decent second best.

‘Thoughts?’ Daud asks as they eye the alleyway. No streetlamps in this area, and the new moon’s about as much use as a tailor on a whaling ship.

Martin looks into the dimness, rolling the barbell on his tongue as he considers the confidence in the lad‘s assessment of them. ‘Well, whatever he wants, it apparently doesn’t involve talking.’

Daud rolls his eyes as he gives way with what little grace he has. ‘Forget I asked. You can go first. Try not to scare the little shit.’

Thumbing the catch that holds the most easily-accessed of his knives in its sheath, Martin nods and steps into the alleyway. He knows this one — the floors above have been connected with a narrow overhang, but they left the ground level open for access to the back door of the factory. A few yards and it opens out into a dead end on the right, towering warehouse walls with barred windows and few footholds. Fantastic place for an ambush, actually, especially with the way the canning factory leaves its empty crates stacked above head height, obscuring the yard.

Martin crosses to the left, knows without needing to check that Daud’s shadowing the right. There’s no sign of their target in the limited view he has into the yard.

He registers the thud of boots dropping to the cobbles behind him just in time to duck and roll as the sound of a well-sharpened blade thrums through the space where he was standing. Daud is there suddenly, long knife braced against the sword, and Martin scrambles out of the way as their target disengages, fast and slippery as a fucking eel, and presses his attack again.

He’s fucking military, _has_ to be with swordwork like that — most of Gristol’s nobility only just know which end to poke into the peasants — but he doesn’t move like the military men Martin’s fought back home. He’s all grace and speed, feet light on the cobbles and blade moving almost too fast to watch. Daud’s just about holding his own but he’s used to guardsmen and nobles, and even as Martin watches them the lad scores a shallow cut down Daud’s forearm, fucking dainty as you please. His face is calm, focused, not even the trace of a smirk.

Well, Daud might not be the best swordsman in this alleyway, but he has other advantages. Martin stands, flicking a knife into his hand.

‘Oi!’ he shouts.

Less elegant than most of his usual repertoire, but it gets the job done. Their target’s attention turns to him for a moment, and it’s enough: Daud disappears with a whisper of Void and reappears behind the lad with a slim wrist in each hand, slams them together. The sword falls out of nerveless fingers and Daud transfers his grip to one hand, his blade held low and full of promises in the other. The lad makes no sound beyond a pained gasp; he freezes in Daud’s grip, pulse visible at his throat and eyes darting.

Martin sheathes his knife and approaches them, brushing himself off with a smile.

‘Well, that was exciting,’ he says briskly. ‘If a little unnecessary. Where the hell did you learn to move a blade like that?’

There’s a moment when he thinks their unanticipated swordsman isn’t going to answer, but it doesn’t last long. ‘Karnaca,’ the lad replies warily.

Up close he’s — breathtaking, long dark lashes and stubble-roughened jaw, muscled shoulders straining against Daud’s hold. He might be a little younger than the two of them, but the assurance with which he holds Martin’s gaze makes it hard to tell. Martin finds himself considerably less interested in thievery than he had been, and he can tell from Daud’s smirk over the lad’s shoulder that it’s been noted.

‘We mean you no harm,’ Martin says. ‘Just wanted to talk.’ He lets a hint of his old Fraeport brogue seep into his words, tongue curling around them. Void knows why, with the Insurrection still smouldering stubborn in the north-east, but Dunwallers seem inclined to trust it. ‘If my friend here lets you go, will you hear us out?’

The lad’s arms tense as he struggles against Daud’s hold, but it’s only a few moments before he visibly accepts defeat. Martin, watching for a deception, sees the lad’s eyes flicker shut for an instant, his head almost tipping back before he catches himself.

 _Well_ , now.

Martin steps closer, close enough to reach out and comb his fingers through dark curls. When the lad shudders at the touch, dark eyes burning with something that could feasibly be anger if not for the way those long lashes shiver, Martin chuckles softly. ‘Or my friend here could hold on whilst we… talk,’ he purrs. He pushes his fingers over the scalp, tightens his grip — and bites his lip hard at the trace of a whine that half-rises from the lad’s throat, even if it’s stifled with a shake of the head and a scowl. No words, though, no denial or sudden rage.

The _things_ Martin wants to do to this one.

Behind the lad, Daud shifts, raising an eyebrow. Martin sighs, untangling his fingers, and steps away. He picks up the dropped sword, noting the stamp of the Serkonan Royal Guard at the base of the blade, and hefts it carefully as Daud releases the lad’s wrists, moves to give him a clear path out. Murder and theft they’ll commit cheerfully, but there are some kinds of violence that sicken even men like them.

‘You’re letting me go?’ the lad says. Martin’s pretty sure that’s something like disappointment in his voice, or maybe Martin’s just very good at hearing what he wants to hear.

‘If you want,’ he says. He’s not brainless, though – he’s keeping the blade. Worth quite a bit from the look of it, and Martin doesn’t have his own fancy bit of smithwork to counter it if the lad decides he wants them dead after all.

There’s a long pause, in which the muffled shouts and music of the crowd beyond the alleyway become suddenly noticeable. The lad all but bounces on his toes, looks at the two of them in turn, shifts his weight in indecision before he turns those wide dark eyes on Martin.

‘And. If I don’t want?’ he asks. His voice is carefully steadied but there’s still a tremor at the edges of it, and there’s that fucking glorious blush.

Martin lets his smile widen, rakes his gaze roughly from the firmness of the lad’s thighs up to the softness of his lips. ‘You’ll say “Karnaca” if you want us to stop,’ he instructs, advancing, blade held loose by his side.

The lad holds Martin’s gaze right up until he reaches out and curls a hand around the back of his neck. Just for a moment, then, those dark eyes shut — and then they open again, blazing all the more furious for that instant of what might have been trust. Martin waits for him to rip away, to run, but although the muscle beneath his fingers is tense to near-shaking, the lad doesn’t move.

So Martin does what he does best and pushes both his advantage and his luck, reels the swordsman in until they’re pressed close. He hears Daud sheathing his blade and moving to the lad’s back, but doesn’t dare lose eye contact lest he break the thread collaring the creature in front of him. He lowers his voice, lets his lips brush against the lad’s as he makes his thoughts plain.

‘If you _want_ ,’ he says, ‘we can bend you over a couple of these crates and have you here.’

The lad draws a sharp breath, and Martin would easily mistake it for fear or affront if not for the quiet whine that follows it, the hard line already pressed against his thigh. Bait set and taken; now to reel his target in.

‘Of course, it would seem a bit of a waste of such an opportunity. You’re so ready for us, just like that?’ He luxuriates in the slight, almost-disbelieving nod, tightens his grip on the lad’s nape, twisting curls around his fingers. ‘ _Fuck_ , you really are, aren’t you,’ he murmurs, voice soft still, coaxing, transmuting the lad’s every quickened breath into his own. ‘That’s fucking beautiful. _You’re_ fucking beautiful. So eager you’re shaking with it. Well, don’t worry; we’ll take good care of you.’

The lad startles, his whole body bowing into Martin’s, and behind him Daud chuckles, drags his finger further down the taut spine as he closes in. It ends with a soft mewling from the lad, a push of his hips no doubt into the cradle of Daud’s hand, and Martin presses an open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin beneath his ear, traces a line there with the metal bead on his tongue. The lad’s a mess of quivering tension, lost in the two of them already despite his earlier wariness; Martin looks forward to finding out how beautifully they’ll unravel him. ‘My name’s Martin, and my quiet friend here is Daud,’ he says. He’s not been Teague to anyone but his ma and a certain dark-eyed boy since he was a lad; he doesn’t even know if Daud has another name. It doesn’t matter here. ‘If you’re amenable, we’d like to take you home and fuck you until you can’t remember your own name, let alone ours.’

‘Corvo,’ the lad mumbles. As Serkonan a name as Martin’s ever heard, as if the olive skin and black curls hadn’t been enough of a hint. Corvo stiffens suddenly, as if his name’s brought some thought back to him, reminded him of himself. ‘Void, I shouldn’t have– I can’t–’

‘It’s Fugue night, Corvo, there’s no _can’t_ or _shouldn’t_ about it,’ Daud interrupts. Corvo loses his breath at the rumble of that deep voice, tension flooding from him all at once. He’s _delightful_ , Martin muses, grazing kisses over skin rough from shaving.

‘Nothing’s happening all across the Empire until the hymn starts,’ Martin tells him, ‘and that won’t be for another pass of the sun at least. Given the way you react to just my hand in your hair, I’d wager it’s been far too long since someone took proper care of you — held you down and fucked your mouth, or made you ride a nice thick cock till you spilled all over yourself.’ The noise Corvo makes is sheer shocked _want_ , and Martin grins into the lad’s skin. ‘And that, Corvo, is a fucking disgrace, someone as lovely as you not getting what he needs.’

He drags his mouth up Corvo’s jaw, licks at his lip, and uses his grip on the lad’s hair to push him into a kiss. For a moment their mouths don’t quite work together — but then Corvo opens up like a fucking flower, melts back against Daud and gives Martin _everything_. His mouth is hot and welcoming and tastes a little of pear soda; obviously he’s been pacing himself. Definitely new to Fugue, this one. He kisses wonderfully though, needy and open, following Martin’s lead with soft moans at the back of his throat, clutching Martin’s sleeves as if he doesn’t dare touch.

Aware that Daud is waiting, Martin slows the kiss, drawing back little by little until Corvo’s eyes flicker open. He’s gorgeous, lips red and wet, expression slack and dazed. Martin can’t resist a gentle bite to the lad’s lower lip, but then he moves back, slides his free hand to Corvo’s shoulder to turn him towards Daud and moves to place the lad’s sword on the nearest crate.

There’s an indignant yelp behind him, one that trails sharply off into a moan. Amused, Martin turns to see Daud kissing Corvo thoroughly, one hand firm on his ass beneath the coat. The two of them are about the same height, but Corvo’s built lithe and light, whilst Daud’s been punching his way through life as long as Martin’s known him and has the muscle to show for it. Martin can’t help stopping to admire the view for a moment.

Still, he’s not here just to watch, and letting Daud have anything all his own way is rarely a good idea for long, so he saunters up to them and snakes his hands around Corvo’s waist, pulling up waistcoat and shirt until he can touch warm, soft skin and Corvo breaks from Daud to gasp. It’s a spiralling, unsteady thing, and Daud snatches it back from his lips.

Martin rests his chin lightly on Corvo’s shoulder. ‘I look forward to the noises you’ll make when we’ve got you somewhere more private,’ he says matter-of-factly. Corvo whines into Daud’s mouth, and Martin smiles, rubbing his fingers in light circles on the lad’s firm stomach. ‘I’m guessing it’s been a while since you’ve been fucked, so we’ll have to start slow,’ he says. He lets his voice slow, lingers on the words that make the body in front of him tremble. ‘Just one or two fingers to start, and lots of oil so they just slide in, nice and slick. We’ll give you a cock in your mouth to keep you busy and quiet whilst we make your hole ready for another one. Sound good?’

There’s muffled, needy agreement from Corvo, and Daud makes a noise of annoyance and pulls away. ‘Void, Martin, you’re so fucking busy talking I’ll be amazed if you ever get around to actually fucking him,’ he snipes, although his tone’s milder than it might normally be now he’s fairly sure he’s getting laid tonight.

Martin grins. ‘All things in good time.’ He winds a hand in Corvo’s hair and pulls him in, enjoys the arch of Corvo’s back as he twists and the welcome of his mouth, the bite of the brew that Daud and Martin have been drinking light on his tongue. When they part, he pushes Corvo back to Daud, leaving his hand lightly on the back of the lad’s neck as Daud captures his mouth again, barely giving him a moment to breathe. ‘Besides, Corvo doesn’t mind me talking – do you, Corvo.’

The small movement that Corvo makes, as if to break away from the kiss and answer, is stopped short by Daud’s fingers pressing on his cheek, demanding his full compliance. Martin waits, recognising Daud’s irritation with his games — no point pushing too far just yet. Finally Corvo’s released, and he licks his lips, breathing a little fast.

‘I like it,’ he says, eyes on Daud and blush darkening. ‘The things he says.’

Daud rolls his eyes. ‘Clearly you _do_ need a good hard fucking, if that does it for you,’ he says bluntly.

Corvo’s lips part in almost unconscious invitation and the hand on his jaw steers him back to Martin, but before Martin bows his head to Corvo’s he sees the curve of Daud’s smile.

The warm give of Corvo’s lips and tongue is heady, the taut line of his craned neck a temptation Martin’s not sure he can be bothered to resist for much longer. He lets the hand on Corvo’s stomach drift lower, walking his fingers over cloth-covered thighs taut with anticipation. Daud’s hand is moving too, sliding down Corvo’s spine and into his pants, the back of his knuckles brushing against Martin as he reaches down.

Corvo bucks into Martin’s hand, pressing it against Daud, and Martin chuckles, strokes so that both of them feel it. Corvo’s writhing already, head bowed and lips shaping soundless pleas against Martin’s mouth, half drunk on anticipation and touch.

‘Tell me what he’s doing,’ Martin murmurs.

He can feel it anyway, every movement Daud makes, but watching Corvo struggle to say the words, his blush returning full force, is every bit as satisfying as Martin was hoping. Corvo lowers his head to Daud’s collarbone, mumbles something barely audible into the skin.

‘Hmm?’ Martin asks, and he lowers his mouth to the soft curve of the lad’s neck, nips and sucks at it as he skates his hand over the line of Corvo’s arousal.

Corvo whimpers, tosses his head back as his entire body trembles, caught between Martin’s fingers and Daud’s. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, his fingers scrabbling at the flanks of Daud’s coat. Martin feels the skin beneath his mouth convulse as Corvo forms words that fall away before they become sounds, as he swallows, tries again, eyes on the dark sky. This time the words are a little more coherent, but only as pleas for _more_.

Martin raises his head, taking a moment to admire the mark he’s left on Corvo’s neck. ‘Let me help you out,’ he suggests, his lips at Corvo’s ear, his voice pitched low. He rolls his hips slowly, pushing against Daud’s hand, relishing in Corvo’s broken moan. ‘Hmm. No oil here, and by the sound of it you’re _definitely_ not used to this, so I’m going to bet he’s barely even got a finger inside you yet. _Void_ , and you’re begging for it so beautifully already.’ He palms the shape of Corvo’s cock through his pants a little harder, allows himself a couple of firm strokes, enjoys the helpless whine that escapes the lad’s throat. ‘All this for just the rub of his fingers over that tight little hole of yours?’ he asks. ‘Does it feel that good? Or is it how much you want more that’s making you squirm like this?’

‘ _Yes_.’

‘I’ll take that as ‘all of the above’ then,’ Martin laughs. ‘Perhaps we should get you to somewhere we can give you what you want, hmm?’

Disentangling himself from Corvo’s body, from Daud’s arms, leaves Martin colder than he’d like, and Corvo’s bereft whimper makes him want to cut this all short and fuck the lad right there. Daud compensates, of course, with a lazy thrust of his hips, driving Corvo’s body into his hand and turning the whimper into a gasp, capturing open lips with his in a kiss as rough as it is demanding. When he pulls back, Corvo staggers a half-step with him. Martin slips an arm around the lad’s waist from the side, noting the way that Corvo settles so willingly into the shape of him.

‘What’s the word if you want us to stop?’ he tests as Daud retrieves the lad’s blade.

Corvo blinks, dark eyes clearing a little, and his weight steadies, pulls away. ‘Karnaca. I. I don’t,’ he adds, and although his tongue stumbles over the words, he seems clear-headed enough. ‘Please.’ That’s enough for Martin, and when he glances across at Daud, his partner nods.

Daud slides Corvo’s blade back into the scabbard on his belt, and the three of them make their way out of the alley and through the sudden clamour of the crowded streets. Daud moves ahead, that glare of his clearing their way; Martin’s more than content to follow in his wake with Corvo, crude promises and worse praise spilling from his lips into Corvo’s ear in an experimental effort to keep the lad’s ears and cheeks burning.

Their current apartment is only a few streets away. Daud lets them in, then calmly, deliberately, takes Corvo’s wrists in one hand and pins him against the wall in the small kitchen area, lit by the streetlights outside. The other hand he uses to remove both Corvo’s swordbelt and his own, both of which he hands to Martin without a backwards look.

Martin sighs and locks the apartment door, then drops the tangle of leather and blades onto the threadbare couch, moves into Daud’s room (empty of anything but a bed, a table and washstand and the odd collection of books) and lights the lamps there. He pulls a couple of knives from their sheaths in his boot and sleeve, pulls off the belt that holds the others and drops them all in a corner out of the way. Then he goes to the door, leans on the frame and enjoys the sight of Daud almost devouring Corvo against the wall. Corvo’s expensive coat is a crumpled heap around his feet, his waistcoat shoved up and his shirt bunched around Daud’s wandering hand. Corvo himself is barely less ruined, his head thrown back and his eyes glazed as Daud tracks Martin’s red marks over his throat, covers each of them with a nip of his teeth.

‘That would be more comfortable in bed,’ Martin notes, thumbing open the buttons of his own waistcoat.

Having been Daud’s partner for four years has its advantages; for example, whilst Martin has learned to recognise the pause that is invariably Daud rolling his eyes, it’s fairly often followed by Daud doing as Martin has suggested, albeit with his own particular brand of acquiescence.

Sure enough, Daud straightens, releasing Corvo’s hands, and pushes the lad towards Martin hard enough that he near-trips. Martin catches him with a hand along his jaw, teasing but not delivering a kiss, and turns smoothly so that the lad’s directed into the room, stumbling to the bed.

Daud approaches Martin in the doorway, pauses close beside him. He’s rarely this near; Martin’s abruptly reminded that Daud’s a couple of inches taller than him, a little broader about the shoulders, and resists the urge to stand up straight with the expertise of long practice.

‘Easy on him, he’s under pretty deep,’ Daud murmurs, just quiet enough that Corvo shouldn’t be able to hear him.

‘No shit,’ Martin replies, a little amused, his eyes on the rucked line of Corvo’s shirt. ‘Also, who was it near finger fucking him in an alleyway?’

‘Oh, fuck you,’ Daud retorts, but his heart’s not in it – his attention’s on Corvo, who’s hovering uncertainly by the bed.

‘In your dreams,’ Martin answers with a quick grin, flashing the metal in his tongue at his partner. He turns to Corvo before Daud can respond, closing the distance between them and scraping a hand into the lad’s hair, commanding his attention with lips and tongue and teeth. Daud crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bed, watches them as he shrugs out of his coat and the supply belts slung over his shirt, pulls off his boots. Martin pretends he doesn’t have half an eye on his partner, throws himself into the yielding warmth of Corvo’s mouth.

By the time he’s done, Corvo is mewling into every press of Martin’s tongue, hips jerking helplessly against Martin’s thigh. When Martin moves slowly towards Daud, Corvo follows as if he can’t bear to have space between them, and Martin guides him between Daud’s carelessly spread legs before he pulls away, grazing his lips over dark stubble as he speaks.

‘You know, Corvo, I think you owe Daud something of an apology for that unprovoked attack earlier.’

Corvo’s eyes blink open, hazy and uncertain, and Martin drops both hands on his shoulders, turns him to face the bed. ‘Might I suggest you deliver it from your knees?’

The sight of Corvo folding gracefully to his knees without a moment of hesitation is probably a violation of at least three of the Abbey’s strictures, Martin considers — maybe even four, when Corvo’s so close to him that he can feel every movement, and has to shift his feet apart to allow it. Daud shakes his head in grudging approval, curling a hand through Corvo’s hair and grinning at the resulting whine, at the way Corvo reaches for the laces stretched taut in front of his face as if he has no time to waste.

Martin winks at Daud, then nudges Corvo’s legs apart with his feet and kneels in the space behind him. It’s immensely gratifying to hear the murmur in Corvo’s throat as Martin presses against him from shoulder to knee, to watch him abandon the laces of Daud’s pants and rest his forehead on the man’s broad thigh, that dark blush steady on the back of his neck.

‘Wh – what are you doing?’ Corvo mumbles.

‘That, Corvo, depends on you,’ Martin replies, slipping his hands around Corvo’s waist and undoing the lowest button of the lad’s waistcoat, his fingers brushing skin before they move upwards. He lets himself rock his hips slowly forward, luxuriating in the friction of Corvo’s firm ass against him, even if it is through a few layers of cloth. Anticipation is half of the pleasure, after all – and Martin fully intends on collecting on the other half. ‘I suggest you fill that lovely mouth of yours with cock, and I assure you that you’ll find out what I’m doing as I do it.’

Before Corvo has a chance to respond, Daud pulls his head up by the hand coiled in his hair, and the lad’s shudder as he all but melts into Daud’s grip is a thing of beauty. Obviously amused, Daud sits forward and unlaces his own pants, pushing the cloth away from his jutting cock. Martin watches, considerably less than half of his attention on slowly-undone buttons, as Daud guides Corvo by his hair, bringing him close enough to touch the flushed head with the tip of his tongue, pulling him away with a sticky string of arousal stretching to his mouth. Corvo licks his lips with a pleased hum, and Martin and Daud exchange a glance.

Daud tightens his knuckles against Corvo’s scalp; Martin pulls the waistcoat back off Corvo’s shoulders, dragging it down to his elbows and twisting it so that his hands are pinned behind him. Corvo’s jerked backwards with a yell, struggling against them both to keep his balance. Martin grabs his wrists in one hand as Daud pulls him up by the hair, forcing him to arch his back, his breath coming fast.

The two of them have used similar holds to cut throats cleanly: Corvo’s pulse judders in a way that’s soothingly familiar under Martin’s fingers.

Blood is hardly their goal tonight, though. Martin presses his lips to the nape of Corvo’s neck, hushing him as he reaches around. The buttons of Corvo’s shirt come apart easily and Martin drags it down to further restrain his arms, admiring the smooth olive skin and straining, shaking muscle of his shoulders as the bunched cloth is tied off.

‘Gorgeous,’ Martin says, running his hands over Corvo’s revealed body, noting where the lad twitches at lighter and heavier touches. Daud loosens his grip a little, but Corvo stays tense, quivering with arousal and probably, Martin suspects, a little more fear than is necessary.

He smoothes his hands up over Corvo’s biceps, digs his thumbs into the bunched muscle at his neck and smiles as Corvo groans, going as slack as Daud will allow. ‘That’s it,’ he murmurs, kneading down the lad’s spine. The sounds spilling from Corvo’s lips are fucking beautiful, want and need and frustration all rolled into a tight ball that sends heat rushing to Martin’s cock. He leans back, chuckles as Corvo’s tied hands reach desperately for him. ‘You’d let us do anything to you right now, wouldn’t you,’ he says, a little awestruck.

Corvo nods, as much as he can. Above them, Daud sighs heavily. ‘I’d settle for fucking his mouth, if you’re quite done being a bloody romantic,’ he says pointedly.

This isn’t the first time they’ve shared a man between them, so Martin doesn’t bother pointing out that it’s Daud who’s been holding Corvo upright, or even looking up – he just rolls his eyes, knowing that Daud’s watching him. Corvo’s eager straining is suddenly rewarded, and the sound of satisfaction he makes as Daud pushes his head down has Martin biting his lip, digging short nails into his thigh to distract himself. It’s been a while since he had a cock on his tongue, that thick warmth filling his mouth.

Daud rocks his hips up, and Martin pulls Corvo’s hair away from his face, watches the lad work his jaw to adjust to the intrusion. Corvo’s eyes are closed, everything in him focussed on the obscene stretch of his lips around the girth of Daud’s shaft. He barely even notices Martin’s hands undoing the laces of his pants, even with his own erection pushing against them, but the strangled sound when Martin’s fingers close around him is acknowledgement enough. The velvet firmness of his cock is lovely too, already slick with how much he likes being pinned against walls, pressed between the two of them. Martin strokes his fingers over the soft head, teases with fleeting touches. Corvo bucks his hips up, starts to raises his head to demand, and half-chokes when Daud pulls him back down.

‘None of that,’ Martin chides, letting his hand linger on Corvo’s clothed thigh. ‘We’ll give you what you need in our own time; tap twice on one of us if you need to stop.’ Daud’s fingers loosen enough to allow Corvo to nod once. The way that he then returns his attention to the cock in his mouth, wholly absorbed, is enough to make Martin wonder if perhaps they should keep him.

He voices the thought, idly twisting a finger in a curly lock, and Corvo whimpers, his erection jerking in Martin’s hand. ‘Oh, you like that idea?’ Martin asks, his lips against the back of the lad’s neck, brushing black hair with every breath. ‘You’d like us to keep you here for us?’ He trails his hand over Corvo’s hipbone, pressing himself against the arch of his strong back, rolling with the movement of Corvo’s head as Daud works it on his cock. Like this, every catch in Corvo’s breath, every helpless jerk of his hips, is Martin’s to keep.

It’s a shame to pull away, but it’s only the work of a moment to drag Corvo’s pants to his knees, to slick two fingers with oil from the leather bottle in his pocket. Martin allows himself a single finger, and the moan and squirm that greets its stroke over Corvo’s hole is worth the loss.

‘Of course, we wouldn’t always be around; we’re busy men,’ Martin says in a conversational tone. He works his fingertip around the soft rim, dipping in and easing out, half teasing and half testing. A shame that Corvo’s hands are held like that, obscuring most of what is no doubt a gorgeously taut behind. ‘But I’m sure we could fit in a good fucking or two most days.’ He emphasises the sentence with the slide of his finger up to the second knuckle into impossibly tight warmth; Corvo gasps around Daud’s cock, pushing back into Martin’s hand in a shameless demand for more. ‘Could fuck you enough that you’d not need this, you’d be open for us all the time,’ he says softly, dragging slowly out and pressing in again, this time as far as he can, circling his wrist to ease open the tight rim. His pants are distinctly uncomfortable, and he fumbles the buttons with his free hand, adjusts himself. ‘Of course, we’re not the most patient of men; we might both wish to make use of this wonderfully tight hole, so perhaps you might still need a few more fingers.’

He shifts as he speaks, searching, and is rewarded with a choked wail. He notes the curve of his finger as he draws out another cry, Corvo’s voice already cracking. ‘Or perhaps not,’ he murmurs. ‘You’re practically made for this, so soft and warm and greedy for it. Such a good little slut for us.’ The back of Corvo’s neck flushes dark at his words.

Of course, it might not just be the words. Daud’s fingers are clenched in Corvo’s hair, his other hand supporting himself as he leans back on the bed, near fucking Corvo’s mouth. Martin twists his fingers to ease open the vicelike heat and presses his lips to the broad expanse of Corvo’s shoulders, revelling in the faint tremble there, and then slows himself, savours every calculated shift of his fingers, skates his thumb ever so lightly over the dripping head of Corvo’s cock. Corvo’s breathless moans, their rhythm dictated by the flex of Daud’s hips and the pull of his fingers, turn to wordless pleading as Martin takes his time, every twist and thrust calculated and committed to memory. Not that Corvo needs to use words — Martin can see his desperation in the shuddering arch of his back as he pushes himself against Martin’s hand, in the flex of his arms and the white strain of his fists and the press of his shoulders against the inside of Daud’s broad thighs. It’s been a while since Martin was with someone who surrendered so readily, so perfectly; he’d almost forgotten how it makes his heart pound.

Martin raises his head, his lips barely an inch from Corvo’s ear. ‘You feel so fucking good around my fingers,’ he says, and Corvo gasps, whines frantically around the thrust of Daud’s cock. ‘You’re so good like this, our needy, pretty boy, all wound up and desperate even with your throat full of cock and my fingers in your ass. D’you want more, sweetheart?’

He doesn’t wait for an answer, suspects Corvo would be barely capable of giving one even without his mouth otherwise occupied, just works a third finger in and braces his other hand on Corvo’s inner thigh and picks up the pace. The change wrings wordless and muffled cries from Corvo that mingle beautifully with the wet, obscene sound of the oil around Martin’s fingers.

‘Going to come for us, pretty boy?’ Martin breathes. He’s barely put his hand on Corvo’s cock before the lad shudders, and heat spatters over his skin as Corvo’s hole pulses hard around his fingers. It’s mesmerising, stunning, the quiver of Corvo’s body in his arms and against his chest. He feels Daud go still in something like surprise.

‘Did you just —‘ Daud asks, pulling Corvo’s head back. Martin wishes he could see Corvo’s face, lax and satisfied after his climax, but settles for the sweat-damp curve of his spine instead, the still-clenching heat of his ass, the twitch of his hips.

‘I said he was made for this,’ he purrs, hearing the pride in his voice. ‘I barely touched his cock.’

And ah, there’s the spread of that beautiful blush again, Corvo’s neck and ears darkening as he squirms, trying to pull away from Daud’s grip on his hair as he surfaces a little from the daze he’s in. Martin’s about to intervene, to put him back under, but Daud leans down, his hand cupping Corvo’s jaw. Corvo goes still instantly, eyes wide and fixed on Daud’s.

‘Martin’s going to untie your hands, and then you’re going to remove our clothes,’ Daud says, voice rough and low in a way that makes Martin’s own cock jump, ‘and then you’re going to turn yourself around, and sit yourself down, and fuck yourself open on my cock.’

As Corvo’s whimpered curse slips out, Daud glances down at Martin, that calm smirk never leaving his face. ‘You’ll get your turn after.’

Martin near bites through his lip as he snaps his jaw shut around the plea that rises in him hard and fast. He’s not— he doesn’t— he’s not here for Daud, they don’t do that, he’s here for Corvo, regardless of how his brain (and any other part of him) interprets an offer that Daud didn’t make. He wonders wildly if the sudden gut-punch of his heartbeat is visible in his throat from the bed, forces himself to lower his head to Corvo’s shoulder and breathe, conceals it in the drag of his fingers from Corvo’s warmth.

Through the singing haze in his blood he remembers that there’s a handkerchief in his waistcoat pocket, and pulls it out to wipe the worst of the oil and seed from his hands. Daud is leaning down, hand still cradling Corvo’s jaw as he kisses him deep and demanding, and Martin concentrates on the steps of untying Corvo’s wrists, discards the shirt and waistcoat on the floor behind them. Corvo barely moves when he’s freed, lost in the pressure of Daud’s mouth and hands as he kneels between the man’s legs with his wrists crossed behind him.

Martin stands up to head for the washstand; Corvo makes a murmured noise of protest, head half-turning. Daud chuckles, pulls him back into the kiss with a hand either side of his jaw and crosses his legs to force him up onto his knees. Martin makes himself turn away from that sight to rinse his hands in the shock of cold water. The towel’s cheap and thin, and he scrubs it over his skin a little longer than he needs to, lets the rasp of it ground him against the shift of bodies and hot breath behind him.

The snort of amusement at the back of Daud’s throat tells Martin he’s been made, and he turns back to see his partner watching him over Corvo’s shoulder as the lad fumbles with his boots. Daud’s eyes are hot with intent and his smirk is on the edge of a grin, his entire stance a challenge Martin has to wonder if he’ll win.

Of course, he considers, Daud will regularly win every toss of dice and still come away with less money than Martin; there’s something to be said for strategic losses.

So Martin scrubs his fingers through his hair, loosening it from its combed and oiled lines, and makes quick work of his remaining shirt buttons, pulling it and his waistcoat off together. Long habit makes him untangle and fold them, and place them on the washstand where he can see them: one headlong flight from the authorities clothed in only a pair of inside-out pants is enough for a lifetime.

When he’s done, he turns back to find Corvo standing in front of him, naked and looking oddly uncertain given that he could easily be a sculptor’s study, all defined muscle and olive skin. Martin pulls him in for a quick kiss and then guides his hands to the buttons of his pants, lowers his head to nip and suck a dark bruise into the lad’s neck, high enough that it’ll be visible above his collar. When he releases him, Corvo sinks to his knees once more, obeying Daud’s instructions. Martin considers the mess of dark hair on a level with his cock and wonders if he really wants to play along.

Daud clears his throat from the bed. Corvo looks over, his attention torn.

‘Go on,’ Martin sighs.

He lets Corvo get to his feet, but just for good measure yanks him in close, their weight braced on the washstand and Corvo’s moan swallowed in Martin’s mouth. With the whole firm length of Corvo’s body pressed against his, Martin slips three fingers into the slick ring of the lad’s asshole, grins into the kiss as Corvo shudders and cries out, rutting against his thigh. Martin catches Corvo’s lip between his teeth, near hard enough to draw blood, before he pulls away and pushes Corvo back to Daud.

Daud rolls his eyes, but he seats Corvo on his lap quick enough, back pressed against his chest and legs straddled wide over his thighs. Corvo shakes, whimpers as he’s slowly breached and breathes deep as Daud slides home, and Martin watches and swallows hard. Corvo’s arms twine around Daud’s neck, straining for leverage, and his eyes shiver closed. Martin takes two steps forward before he can second-guess himself, kneels again in the cage of Daud’s legs, closes his mouth around the entirety of Corvo’s softened cock and sucks.

Corvo’s yell would have the adjoining apartments thumping on the walls any other night, but tonight it’s lost in the sounds of Fugue drifting up from the street. Martin, half of his attention on the heavy softness in his mouth and half on the scratch of hair and press of muscle either side of him, hears Daud swear as he starts to move. Corvo’s hips are bucked upwards suddenly and the lad is all breathless wordless shouts, stiffening against Martin’s tongue as he’s fucked. Martin revels in the slow swelling that fills his mouth more with every thrust, in the noises he and Daud wring from Corvo’s throat, and follows the ever-more defined shape of Corvo’s arousal with the round tip of his piercing, tracking the stud back and forth over velvet-soft skin. Daud’s left hand is braced over the inside of Corvo’s thigh just an inch from Martin’s face, the leather wrap taut and indents of short nails pale against skin. Martin remembers the sight of the sleek black mark and can’t help wondering if it would taste of salt like sweat or salt like sea, and whether that would be a lighter or heavier blasphemy than the half-formed curses hissing between Daud’s teeth. He reaches up to roll Corvo’s balls in his fingers, tracing down to where the skin becomes soft and then back up.

It’s not long before Corvo falls forward, hard and panting and half-sobbing. His hands scrabble for purchase on Daud’s legs as Daud rolls his hips, slow and steady. The motion lets Martin do as he wishes, sometimes moving with it to push Corvo’s cock to the back of his throat, sometimes leaning back to lave his tongue over the head; he’d think it was Daud being considerate were that not an alien concept to the man.

‘ _Please_ –’ Corvo gasps. Martin swallows him to the root, cutting off any further words, and hums inquiringly beneath the resulting wail. He pulls back then, letting his tongue flicker around the shaft as he gives Corvo a chance to speak. Daud stills, lets Corvo sink down fully onto his cock, and Corvo keens softly.

‘Well?’ Daud asks, amusement lingering in his voice. His fingers trace a gentle path on the skin of Corvo’s inner thigh, around the marks of his nails. The words Corvo starts to form dissolve into whimpers, lost in the touch.

‘Let me guess – you want more,’ Martin says, taking pity on the lad. Corvo manages a pleading whine, lashes shivering and attention clearly on the press of Daud’s cock inside him. ‘A big cock deep in your ass and your own prick in my mouth and still you want more,’ Martin says, and he doesn’t bother to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. He leans forward again, licks a firm stripe from root to slit, and the drop of fluid at the tip sticks to his tongue, so he sucks hard on the head for good measure. Corvo shakes, his breath a shudder in his throat and his fingertips white on Daud’s knees, and Martin relents. A little. ‘A shame there’s only the two of us, really, since it’s fairly obvious that what you really want is to be filled, and used, and fucked, hmm? Well, I suppose we’ll just have to do the best we can.’

Corvo squirms, hiding his face in the fall of his hair and the curve of his shoulder, and mumbles something inaudible.

‘Didn’t catch that,’ Daud says. His hand drops from Corvo’s thigh, and he leans back. It’s a calculated move; Corvo’s shocked out of his shyness as Daud’s hips shift.

‘Yes!’ he gasps. ‘More, everything, wha– _ah_ – whatever you want, _please_.’

‘Martin, get up here,’ Daud demands.

There are some orders Martin’ll take happily. He extracts himself from the warmth of the two of them and follows the jerk of Daud’s chin towards the headboard, sits and puts the pillow against his back. Daud manhandles Corvo onto his hands and knees, casually spreading Martin’s legs as he does so to place Corvo between them. Martin fists his hand in the mess of loose curls and pulls gently, and Corvo crawls forward, licks tentatively at the head of Martin’s cock. And fuck, it’s an all-too-gentle reminder that Martin’s been near-untouched since this all started. He bites back a curse, chances an upwards flick of his eyes to see Daud kneeling back behind Corvo, all tan skin and scars over packed muscle, watching them. Watching _Martin._

Well, Martin’s never been able to resist putting on a show. He lowers his attention back to Corvo, directs the lad where he wants him. ‘Go on, sweetheart,’ he prompts, and Corvo obeys.

Martin’s free hand tightens in the bedsheets as his cock is engulfed in wet heat. Corvo doesn’t waste any time; Martin arches into the twist of his tongue, the curl of his hand, the way he leans in to take as much as he can between his lips and worship every part of it, fervent and spit-slick. Martin lets the feel of it flood him, lets it wash through his body when he tips his head back against the wall, bracing himself as much against the pressure of Daud’s eyes as that of Corvo’s mouth.

‘Fuck, yes, that’s perfect,’ he manages, fingers stuttering through curls. Words aren’t as easy with the tide of want rushing through him, with the wet blunt drag of teeth over skin already over-sensitised. They fail altogether when Corvo drops his hands and swallows Martin down to the back of his throat, eager and messy. Martin inhales the cry that tries to escape him, spreads his hand over the back of Corvo’s head and holds him there for a few moments. And then releases him, and pulls him back to see lips and eyes both shining wet. The sight coils heat in Martin’s gut; he bites his lip, focuses on controlling himself. Not yet.

There’s movement from the end of the bed, and then Daud thrusts hard and a cry tears itself from Corvo’s throat as he braces his forearms on Martin’s thighs, back arching. Martin lets him get used to it for a few strokes, then redoubles his grip in the lad’s hair, shoving him down. Corvo gags almost immediately, but when Martin goes to pull him back he pushes down instead, moving with the thrust of Daud behind him. For a moment Corvo tenses, and Martin readies himself to move away, but Corvo’s hands lock tight on his sides, and the cries from the back of his throat every time Daud drives into him are clearly more than satisfied.

‘Happy now?’ Martin says, and if his voice is a little shaky he can hardly be blamed, with the curl of need in his balls and the hot wetness around his shaft, even if Corvo’s attention is mostly on himself. ‘This is what you need, isn’t it – what you’ve wanted since you saw us in the street.’ Corvo’s wordless agreement is frantic, broken by the slap of Daud’s hips against his. Martin’s a selfish man, though, always has been, and he wants to hear more. ‘When Daud’s done with you, you’re going to ride me until you come like I promised, that lovely hole of yours all slick and full. He might even watch.’

Corvo’s entire body jerks at that, mouth opening and back arching as his fingers scrabble on Martin’s sides, nails digging in hard enough that Martin won’t be surprised to find marks there in the morning. Behind him Daud’s rhythm stutters and he curses, jaw gritted and hands tightening on Corvo’s hips as Corvo pushes back hard against him, shaking fit to shatter in his second climax. Daud leans forward to grip Corvo’s shoulder and brace him, and Martin watches them with his hand working his own cock. Daud fucks into Corvo hard and fast, relents only when he reaches his own release with a short cry, a deep thrust that pushes Corvo over into Martin’s shoulder, half-sobbing from overstimulation.

Daud pulls out and sits back on his heels, satisfied and lazily amused. It’s a few moments before Martin can make himself run his hand up the neck of the lad panting softly into his shoulder, and even that tentative movement elicits a shiver and a quiet wail.

Martin brushes his lips against the sweat-damp temple that’s all he can reach. ‘Think you can take more?’ he asks. He promised, after all.

There’s a pause, but then Corvo’s head shifts in a nod, and he kneels up, wincing a little as the messed sheets slide beneath his shins. He looks wrecked, from the dazed look in his eyes to the swollen red of his lips to the trail of marks from his jaw to his chest, and Martin can’t help pulling him in again to kiss him, pouring all of his want and need into it. When he draws back, Daud comes closer, shifts the two of them together.

It doesn’t take long; Corvo’s heavy-lidded and languid, and when he lowers himself slowly onto Martin he’s immeasurably warm, so wet there’s almost no resistance. With Daud kneeling behind him, hands on his hips to direct his movement, nipping at dark-bruised skin and his eyes flickering every so often to Martin, it’s too much for both of them. Even so, Martin’s half-shocked when Corvo locks up, trembling with his head tipped back in a soundless scream as he spills what little’s left in him. The convulsion of it around Martin’s cock, and the vision above him, pulls him over the edge; he spends himself deep inside Corvo, curses and endearments tumbling from his lips.

When he comes back to himself, Daud’s standing over him with a mug of water and a damp towel, still naked but with a line of small holes down his ear where the row of metal normally sits. Corvo, it emerges, is half-buried beneath the blankets on Martin’s other side, only a tangle of dark hair showing.

Martin shoves himself upright, takes the mug and the towel (and the smirking once-over Daud gives him) with a mutter of thanks, resisting the urge to complain that the towel’s cold as ice. Daud heads to the other side of the bed, and there’s a discontented series of grumbles from beneath the blankets as he gets underneath them, ends up facing Martin with Corvo nestled in the curve of his shoulder, still mostly insensible.

‘Didn’t know you cuddled,’ Martin dares, wincing as he wipes himself off with the cold towel. Of course, they’ve not been quite so, ah, _thorough_ with a guest for a long time. Corvo’s hardly in a state to be going anywhere by himself.

‘Apartment’s freezing and so’s he,’ Daud retorts. ‘Sleep in your own damn bed if you’ve got a problem with it.’

Huh. That’s something like an invitation. Martin drops the towel beside the bed, turns the oil lamps out and pulls the covers over himself, drifts asleep to the noises of Fugue loud in the street outside.

 

In the grey dawn light Martin half-wakes with a broad bicep as a pillow, his leg draped over firm thighs, and an amount of space he vaguely realises he wasn’t expecting. He starts to lift his head, begrudgingly wakeful, to investigate.

‘Lad’s gone,’ Daud says without opening his eyes, voice shredded by sleep.

‘Corvo,’ Martin mutters to himself, the name suddenly familiar in the new day. ‘Isn’t that the name of –’

‘Princess Jessamine’s Lord Protector, aye.’

‘D’you think–’

‘Serkonan Guard sword, Karnacan. Seems likely.’

‘Huh.’

Martin considers musing on the worth of that connection, but there’s light starting to eke its way through the shutters, and his brain works far better in the dark. He hazily considers going back to his own bed now Corvo’s gone, but the heat radiating from Daud is comfortable and anyway (and he will never tell this to anyone as long as he lives) Martin sleeps better with his partner beside him.

‘Put your fucking head down so I can go back to sleep,’ Daud grumbles indistinctly, eyes still closed.

It’s permission enough, Martin decides, and does as he’s told.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback and comments always welcome; you can also poke me on [tumblr](http://intentandinvention.tumblr.com).


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